Sometimes I am amazed by my own parental naivety. Perhaps its more a case of not learning, or history repeating, or something more relating to mental health than popular cliche, but I’m now up to at least 4 times that I’ve uttered the exact words “well, now that she’s peed on the floor, at least we know she wont be peeing again for a little while” only to find myself shortly thereafter on my hands and knees soaking up another precious little puddle from my precious little puddle-making machine… usually while she stands idly by watching and giggling. Recently she has taken to running behind the curtain in our bedroom to deposit her liquidy gift… a treasure that I often don’t find until later in the day as I’m hurrying to locate one of my a rare shirts that doesn’t have snot stains on the shoulder or vomit stains down the front, before rushing out to act grown up (well, you know, only slightly immature) with other grown ups in a grown up venue talking about grown up things (actually, we usually talk about our baby’s poop and pee, but we sort of do so in grown up way – ie while quaffing a glass of beer). As is the case last week, this whole process usually results in me being late (and being growled at by countless dogs on my walk to the grown up’s venue) because I’ve needed throw my socks in the dryer and wait the 10 minutes for them to go from soggy to merely damp (but somewhat warm… which feels disturbingly pleasant). But, it makes for an excellent 1-upmanship story when I get to the pub. Err… grown up venue. Brilliant!